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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28870521">those quiet hours turning to years</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans'>jacyevans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Solstice [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Gods &amp; Goddesses, Angst and Feels, Derek Hale is a God, Domestic, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Minor Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Oaths &amp; Vows, Other: See Story Notes, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Rituals and Magic, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Stilinski Family Feels, The Hales are Gods</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:35:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,923</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28870521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah drinks in every detail of her face, from the way the corners of her lips turn upwards, the slight glow of exertion at her cheekbones, to the shadows of her eyelashes against her cheeks.</p><p>“This is amazing,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. What he means is, <i>You’re amazing.</i></p><p>Or, the Stilinski family history spanning over twenty-two years, from Noah and Claudia's marriage, Stiles' childhood and Claudia's death, through the beginning of Stiles and Derek's relationship. A Solstice Verse side story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Claudia Stilinski/Sheriff Stilinski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Solstice [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sterek Goodness</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm sorry for the delay in posting. I've been dealing with some sickness in my family, and the stress has left me extremely exhausted.</p><p>When I started working on the third fic in this series, I had an idea for a few short scenes from Noah and Claudia's POVs. As you can see from the word count, those scenes exploded into a fic all their own. Peter and Talia wanted in on the deal because even as gods, the Hales have no chill.</p><p>If you haven't read the rest of this series, you can still read this fic on its own, although some of the nuances will be lost. If you're just here for Sterek, you can skip this fic if you want, but I really hope you decide to stick around. I love the way this turned out. It puts Stiles' thoughts throughout the series into perspective and also includes some of my favorite moments with the Hales.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>one</strong>
</p><p>Noah makes his way slowly through the forest, branches and dead brush crackling under his feet. His knees ache, and it will probably take all night for him to hike back to the house, but it's worth the exhaustion to see the smile on Claudia’s face every time she looks back to make sure he’s following.</p><p>“Keep up, old man,” she says, eyes twinkling.</p><p>“I am two years older than you are,” he says, as he always does, and Claudia rolls her eyes, as she always does. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were dragging me out here to sacrifice me to some errant god.”</p><p>Claudia laughs like the joke is far more hilarious than he meant it to be.</p><p>“So dramatic,” she teases, taking his hand, her fingers warm and fitting perfectly between his own.</p><p>He looks up at the cliffs at their side, taking stock of his surroundings, follows Claudia around a sharp left turn, and then the temple comes into view.</p><p>She laughs as he stops in his tracks, slack-jawed. He’s lived in Beacon his entire life; never has he so much as heard rumor of an ancient temple only several hours walk into their own woods.</p><p>Now he understands why she laughed so hard.</p><p>She walks up the stairs and around one of the support columns, pressing her fingertips to the branches of the rowan tree carved into the stone.</p><p>“My family built this shrine hundreds of years ago,” she says, looking at Noah. Her finger never stops moving, sliding up and down the grooves as if she has their exact shape and placement memorized. “It wasn’t anything special. There were many across the kingdom then.”</p><p>She walks around the column again, following the pattern. Noah stares, transfixed. “Over the years, people stopped believing in the old gods. Their names faded from memory and their temples disappeared. All but one.”</p><p>She looks up at the crumbling edifice with a wistful smile. Noah drinks in every detail of her face, from the way the corners of her lips turn upwards, the slight glow of exertion at her cheekbones, to the shadows of her eyelashes against her cheeks.</p><p>Claudia’s gaze meets his. She tilts her head to the side. “What?”</p><p>“This is amazing,” he says, shaking his head in wonder. What he means is, <em>You’re amazing.</em></p><p>Her cheeks burn red as if she hears the words he doesn’t say. She takes his hand. “Come on.”</p><p>Claudia leads him up the stone steps and through the open doorway. She lets go as they walk inside, allowing Noah to explore.</p><p>The interior walls appear the same as they do from outside, square, brown stones spaced in jagged patterns, covered in hundreds of years worth of dirt, dust, and moss. A rolling stream cascades from one end of the space to the other, as if the temple was built using its exact length as a guide. The grass is midsummer-green beneath his feet, and surprisingly so—they’re several weeks into autumn.</p><p>Occupying the middle space is a tree stump, wider than he is tall, standing almost at the height of his waist. The tree that came before must have been a sight to behold.</p><p>“Altar?” Noah asks.</p><p>“In a way. It wasn’t meant to be.” She trails her fingers along the edge of the outermost rings and tells him about the nemeton, how once, the sacred tree towered over every other, ancient before the temple was built. How the grove was razed to pave the way for new beliefs.</p><p>“Their priests were dead before the year was out.” She shoots him a devious look full of satisfaction at the well-deserved vengeance.</p><p>“Look up,” she says, and he does, finding another surprise. The walls curve slightly inward, coming to an abrupt end against the open sky. The uppermost stones are inlaid with stone-carved garlands of ivy, broken up at four points by the carefully rendered figure of a wolf with its head thrown back. Noah swears he hears the sound of a howl echo in his ears.</p><p>Claudia follows his gaze with a smile. “Legend has it that the old gods could take the form of some creature half-man, half-wolf.”</p><p>“Do you believe that?”</p><p>She looks down at his face. “Anything is possible for the gods.”</p><p>She bites her lip, twisting her fingers against her stomach. It’s the most uneasy Noah has ever seen her in eighteen years of growing up at her side and the following two years they courted.</p><p>Noah’s gut churns in response. His brow furrows. “What is it?”</p><p>She blurts the question out, voice tinged with desperation. “You believe me, don’t you?”</p><p>He pauses to sit down on the edge of the rowan stump. “I’ve never believed in much—old gods or new. But just because I don’t believe in them doesn’t mean there isn’t some power out there in the universe.”</p><p>“That is a very polite way of saying no,” she says, frowning.</p><p>He sighs, tugs her into his lap, and leans his head on her shoulder. He speaks with his lips at her ear. “I believe that you believe. That your family believes, and I would venture one day our child will as well.”</p><p>She smiles at that, cheeks flushing as she looks at Noah. All of that earlier apprehension melts away as Claudia tugs his head down to kiss his laughing mouth. “We have fourteen days yet before we take our marriage vows, and you are already planning children?”</p><p>“Yes, I am. In fact, I believe we should get started right now.”</p><p>She laughs when he lifts her up into his arms, carries her across the temple, and out the doors.</p><p>They marry two weeks later at the center of the town square with the entirety of Beacon in attendance. He stumbles through his vows, unable to stop smiling long enough to speak the words properly.</p><p>Claudia speaks her vow softly, a single sentence in a language Noah could never hope to speak, but Claudia made sure he would understand all the same.</p><p>“I give myself freely,” she says, voice soft but clear, just before she places a wreath of wolfsbane and ivy on his head, matching the tiny vines and flowers woven into her hair.</p><p>It’s a simple enough addition to the otherwise traditional ceremony, and Noah ignores the looks of confusion from his guests, too busy staring at his beautiful wife to pay them any mind. Their neighbors already have enough to gossip about, what with Noah taking on the Stilinski name.</p><p>Let them talk. He’s not so easily humiliated that something as simple as taking his wife’s name makes him feel less of a man.</p><p><em>His wife.</em> Noah grins as they walk hand-in-hand up the path to their house.</p><p>
  <em>Their house!</em>
</p><p>Claudia swings their joined hands. “What are you smiling so widely about?”</p><p>“You’re my wife,” he says, unable to hide his pure, unbridled joy.</p><p>“And you’re my husband. I’m so glad I married such an observant man,” she drawls.</p><p>Noah lifts her off of her feet, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her across the threshold. Her screech of hysterical laughter rings through the house.</p><p>Claudia disappears once every several weeks to the temple. Sometimes, she carries an offering basket on her arm full of the best fruits from their tiny garden. Other days, she leaves empty handed and returns with an armful of ivy and flowers that she weaves into a wreath to bring back the next visit. He watches her hands, fingers deftly twisting and braiding pieces into place. </p><p>Once, she makes the mistake of dropping half of the pile in Noah’s lap. Patiently, she twists his fingers into the correct placements, manipulating his hands until he’s able to copy the movements on his own. It’s a shaky effort, and he frowns at the dismal results. </p><p>“It’s perfect,” Claudia says.</p><p>Noah rolls his eyes. “It’s terrible.”</p><p>“Well, I think it’s a fine first attempt.” She places her own perfectly woven crown on his head and sweeps his into her basket. “And if it’s good enough for me, then it’s good enough for the gods.”</p><p>He tugs her into his lap, pressing his lips against the impish smile on her mouth.</p><p>She brings her offering to the temple three days later, returning after dusk. Noah is already in bed, lying on top of the covers, eyes closed.</p><p>“You’re home late,” he murmurs. </p><p>Claudia curls up against his chest. “The gods have smiled on us.” She pokes at his cheek until he grunts, opening one eye to glare. There’s a small, blue wolfsbane flower cradled in her palm.</p><p>“I stopped by the midwife on my way home,” she whispers. Noah’s eyes pop open. </p><p>Claudia’s smile blooms across her face. “I’m with child. It’s a boy.”</p><p>There’s a moment of stunned silence before Noah tugs her close with a burst of joyful laughter. He doesn’t say that there’s no way to know the child’s sex, that she isn’t even far enough along for her pregnancy to show. He’s learned not to question his wife when she makes an announcement in that tone of voice—as sure as he is that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.</p><p>In the months that follow, her belly grows. She whispers to their child with her hand low on her stomach, grinning and tugging Noah close enough to feel the baby kick. Her trips to the temple grow further and further apart, until her ninth month, when the hike becomes impossible. She can barely walk a mile to the marketplace. </p><p>Noah glances out the window, at the cloudy sky growing darker by the moment. “I’ll go.”</p><p>Claudia bites her lip, twisting the edges of the wreath in her lap between her fingers. “I should—”</p><p>“Claudia, the skies look like they may open any moment now, and you are due to give birth within the week. I think the gods will forgive you for sending a messenger.”</p><p>He expects her to laugh. Instead, she cups his face in her hands, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. </p><p>She speaks with her mouth so close, her breath warms his cheeks. “I love you. You’re right.”</p><p>He kisses her again. Then, he smirks, plucking the wreath from her hands. “As usual.”</p><p>She throws a pillow at him and hits the pile of firewood standing beside the door instead. He laughs even as he crouches down to straighten out the mess. </p><p>The skies do indeed open up just as he reaches the temple, and he rushes inside, seeking shelter, before he remembers the building has no ceiling. He sighs, skirting the edges of the walls to remain dry and only stepping out when he’s directly in front of the nemeton.</p><p>She didn’t give him any instructions, so he places the wreath on the stump of the rowan tree. He steps back, gaze drawn to the sky, the color of slate and covered by bloated clouds. He shuts his eyes.</p><p>Noah isn’t entirely sure what he’s expecting, but he’s surprisingly disappointed when he opens his eyes and finds nothing changed. Feeling more foolish by the moment, Noah sighs, pats the top of the stump, and heads out into the pouring rain. It isn’t until he’s halfway home and soaked to the bone that he realizes it wasn’t raining at all inside the temple.</p><p>Claudia gives birth several days later. Noah paces outside of the house for hours, watching the sky brighten in the afternoon sun, turn gold at dusk, then black with night. He winces at every scream from his wife’s mouth. He looks up at the stars and—for the first time in his entire life—he prays. </p><p><em>Please, let Claudia survive this.</em>  </p><p>A moment later—silence. He holds his breath.</p><p>The sound of a different cry reaches his ears, this one higher-pitched and squalling, but no less important.</p><p>Noah opens his eyes, heart thundering in his ears when the midwife finally opens the door and beckons him inside. </p><p>Claudia is lying in bed with the baby wrapped up in a blanket at her breast, her face red, hair wet with sweat. He doesn’t think she’s ever looked more beautiful.</p><p>“It’s a boy,” she says with a tired smile. </p><p>Noah brushes the back of his hand across the baby’s face. “Of course he is.” He sits on the bed at her side, thumb stroking her fingers as he lays his hand over hers on the baby’s back. “Did you decide on a name?”</p><p>The midwife snorts from where she’s gathering up the dirtied sheets from beside the bed. She mutters something under her breath he can’t make out, but he doubts it was complimentary. </p><p>Claudia shuts her eyes, ignoring the woman completely. “Mieczysław. After your father.”</p><p>Noah’s thumb stills, all thoughts of the midwife forgotten. His father has been dead since long before they were married; his mother followed soon after.</p><p>Claudia opens her eyes and looks up. “You took my name when we married. The least I can do is give our child yours.”</p><p>He presses his face into the hair at her temple so she doesn’t see the tears of gratitude in his eyes. She slips her hand from beneath his and squeezes his fingers.</p><p>To Noah’s surprise, for all that his birth was a long and arduous affair, Mieczysław is a healthy child. </p><p>To Claudia’s surprise, his first word is, <em>“Da.”</em></p><p>She pouts, playfully bopping their son on the nose with a finger. “I labored for eighteen hours before your birth, and your first word belongs to your father.”</p><p>Noah lifts the squirming, giggling child into his arms, grinning against the crown of his head. Claudia glares, but she can’t quite keep the answering smile off of her face.</p><p>She tells their son about the temple and the old gods, speaks to him in that guttural, ancient language often enough that he begins repeating the words back without prompting. Noah starts to pick up on some of the words, too<em>—</em>beloved, blessed. Loved. She whispers the same in Noah’s ear at night, and he smiles as he falls asleep.</p><p><em>Mieczysław</em> is still a word beyond his son’s speaking abilities; instead, he asks that everyone call him Stiles. Claudia takes to calling him Mischief, a nickname well suited to their son. Stiles is constantly getting into trouble, wandering into the neighbor’s gardens and ruining the flower beds, or running outside to play in the grass and returning covered in mud from head to toe with a garden snake he insists is his new best friend. He’s talkative and energetic and far too bright for his own good.</p><p>For all that he’s outgoing, Stiles doesn’t have many friends, just one of the boys from the village. Even then, he prefers to be home reading, talking his father’s ear off about something new he learned, or listening to his mother tell stories about the old gods of their family as she tucks him into bed at night.</p><p>“Never make a deal with the gods, my little Mischief,” she whispers to Stiles. “Not unless you intend to pay their price.”</p><p> Stiles nods, eyes wide, hanging on her every word.</p><p>She brings Stiles to the temple when he’s old enough to understand her stories rather than just repeat them. They go alone, the two of them in their own little world, an empty basket tucked in the cradle of Claudia’s elbow. </p><p>Noah doesn’t begrudge them this single act of solitude. Besides, if he ever decides to pray again, it’s not like the gods can’t hear him from behind the walls of his own house.</p><p>(Looking back, he wonders if he brought this upon himself, sending such a thought out into the universe. He never suspected he would be given the agonizing opportunity to test that theory.)</p><p>Claudia wakes one morning, coughing so hard, she can barely breathe. Her body aches, head burning with fever. She holds down no food or water, but the town healer states the only cure is rest and time.</p><p>Eventually, the fever breaks. She’s able to eat small portions of bland food, then larger portions. The body aches slowly fade.</p><p>The cough stays.</p><p>Noah begs her to stay in bed and rest, to listen to the healer’s instructions, but Claudia is as stubborn and wilful as her son when it comes to listening to directions she has no desire to follow. She continues her outings with Stiles to the temple. Over time, her cough grows worse. The last time Claudia accompanies Stiles, he carries her over the threshold upon their return, bursting into the house screaming for Noah because his mother can barely breathe.</p><p>The healer returns that night; he does not bring good news.</p><p>“Is Mom dying?” Stiles asks as the healer departs, sympathy written into the lines of the grimace on his face.</p><p>Noah’s chest twists. He should lie. He wants to lie, but his son is far too observant for Noah to get away with it. </p><p>He tugs Stiles into his chest, hugging him as tightly as possible. Stiles clings desperately to his back. </p><p>Somehow, Noah manages to choke out an answer:</p><p>“Yes.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>interlude;</strong>
</p>
<p>Claudia Stilinski knows she’s dying.</p>
<p>She knew it long before Noah or Stiles. She felt the sickness settling into her lungs, making brief walks breathless and the walk to the temple almost impossible. She pushed through for her son, but after collapsing as they reached the path leading up to their home, the secret was out.</p>
<p>Stiles is sleeping with his head in her lap, as he falls asleep often these days. Weeks ago, she heard him ask his father if Claudia was dying. </p>
<p>Her ever-honest husband did not mince words. “Yes.”</p>
<p>Pride welled in her chest the next morning as she watched Stiles gather offerings for the gods to answer his prayers, the same way he watched Claudia do over the years. A tiny part of her expected things to change and ached when her condition worsened.</p>
<p>Sobbing, Stiles laid his head in her lap. The sound wrenched her chest in a way that had nothing to do with sickness.</p>
<p>“Death comes for all of us,” she said, radiating a calm she didn’t feel as she brushed soothing fingers through his hair. “Sometimes, even the gods’ hands are tied.”</p>
<p>Noah lies on her other side, his hand clasped with hers, like the simple act of holding tightly could keep her tethered down to earth. Even honest men have a breaking point. Just before he fell asleep, he begged her to fight. To stay alive.</p>
<p>“Do you think I want to die?” It was the first time she allowed herself to crack. “Do you think I want to leave our son? To leave you? I haven’t had enough time. I want to see Stiles grow up and get married. I want to grow old with you.” Her lip quivered, grieving a life she would never live. “This isn’t my choice. There is nothing either of us can do but—”</p>
<p>“Pray?”</p>
<p>She pressed her forehead to his, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You can try.”</p>
<p>Claudia’s breath hitches at the memory. She shuts her eyes, takes her own advice, and she prays, whispering the language of the old gods under her breath.</p>
<p>When she opens her eyes, she sees a woman sitting at the foot of the bed. Claudia blinks several times, sure the image is a mirage. Perhaps she’s fallen asleep.</p>
<p>“You are not dreaming,” the woman says, as if reading her thoughts, eyes a bright red even in the dim light of the dying hearth fire. “This is real.”</p>
<p>Claudia swallows, her throat too dry. “Who are you?”</p>
<p>“You can call me Talia.” She moves to sit beside Claudia, taking care not to jostle Stiles. Her smile softens as her eyes fade to a deep, fathomless brown. “I heard your prayers.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” For all of the times she appealed to the gods of her family and received the small miracle she prayed for, she’s never once received a definitive answer.</p>
<p>Claudia huffs a stunned laugh that turns into a cough that tightens her lungs. Talia presses a hand to her shoulder. A tingling warmth travels through her chest, and the tightness fades enough that she’s able to take a breath.</p>
<p><em>“Thank you,” </em>she says in Talia’s own tongue; Talia’s eyes widen a fraction before she smiles, pleased. </p>
<p>Claudia looks to Noah and Stiles, sleeping deeply at her side. “I’m surprised that didn’t wake them.”</p>
<p>“They will not wake until I am gone.”</p>
<p>Claudia bites the inside of her cheek against a protest. The gods have their reasons, and it isn’t her duty to question them.  Still, she can’t help but complain a little. She’s dying; she’s entitled. </p>
<p>Dragging her fingers through Stiles’ hair, she says, “I wish my son could witness this.”</p>
<p>“That was the most polite objection I think I have ever heard,” Talia says, and Claudia would worry she insulted the god if not for the smile still gracing her face. “They did not summon me; you did.”</p>
<p>Claudia’s brow furrows. “But I didn’t summon you.”</p>
<p>“You prayed to us in an act of supplication and desperation. Is that not what you taught your son it would take to summon one of the gods?”</p>
<p>“I’ve prayed desperately before.”</p>
<p>Talia’s voice carries a hint of reproach. “Not like this.”</p>
<p>Claudia glances down again at her son and her husband, heart aching. </p>
<p>“Ask,” Talia says softly. “You called out to us for a reason. Ask.”</p>
<p>“Can you<em>—</em>” She clears her throat. “Protect them. Please. Watch out for my family. Keep them safe.”</p>
<p>Talia blinks, mouth slightly open. “That is not what I was expecting.”</p>
<p>“You were expecting me to ask you to heal me?” </p>
<p>“Well<em>—</em>yes,” Talia says, bemused. She looks away from Claudia, and her embarrassment is so unexpected, so delightfully—<i>human.</i></p>
<p>Claudia can't help but smile a little. “I would not presume to ask for such a favor. That is not something you could give, no matter how much I wish that it was."</p>
<p>Talia shakes herself, the tightly folded hands in her lap the only visible evidence that Claudia has taken her off-guard. “You seem very sure of yourself for someone who has never spoken directly to a god before now.”</p>
<p>“Am I wrong?”</p>
<p>“No. You are not wrong. We can’t stop the seasons from changing. Even gods die someday.” Talia looks down at Stiles and lays her hand on his shoulder. He frowns in his sleep. “I will do what I can to watch over them and keep them safe.” Her lips twist into a wry smile, and the mischief transforms her face, making her look more like a young woman whispering a secret than an ancient god divulging Claudia’s fate. “As you said to your son<em>—</em>sometimes, even the gods’ hands are tied.”</p>
<p>Claudia blinks, stunned speechless.</p>
<p>“I told you we’ve been listening.”</p>
<p>“We?” Claudia says weakly.</p>
<p>“There are four of us. My brother and I, and my two children.” Talia looks off into the distance, though Claudia doubts she’s watching the fire in the hearth. “The rest of my family is… long gone.”</p>
<p>Even gods die someday, she said; Claudia sees her own grief echoed back in Talia’s eyes, the way she feels every time Stiles makes an offering and grows more and more hopeless when he doesn’t receive an answer; the way she feels when her husband’s arms wrap around her each time she struggles to get out of bed.</p>
<p>Claudia’s lips tremble as she tries not to cry; she fails. “I have nothing to offer any of you in return. Except for a promise that my son will remember you. That one day, his children will remember you. That there will always be someone alive who still does.”</p>
<p>Talia’s eyes shine with tears. Her voice shakes when she says, “There is nothing you could give me that would be more precious than that.”</p>
<p>“Will I see you again? After?” Her family’s stories that describe any sort of afterlife have been lost to time since long before Claudia was born.</p>
<p>Talia’s smile gives nothing away. “Perhaps.”</p>
<p>She looks down at Stiles and Noah once again. “Will I see them?”</p>
<p>“That I can guarantee.” Talia leans forward and kisses her forehead, the way a mother kisses her children. Claudia closes her eyes, soaking in her warmth.</p>
<p>When she opens them, the room is empty. </p>
<p>Stiles stirs, lifting his head from her lap, eyes squinted half-shut. “Are you okay?” he croaks, still mostly asleep.</p>
<p>Claudia wipes the tears from her eyes with one hand, gently urging her son to lie back down with the other. He sighs as he presses up against her hip. </p>
<p>“Yes, Mischief,” she whispers as he falls back to sleep, “I’m fine.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>two</strong>
</p>
<p>Claudia dies three weeks later. </p>
<p>Noah buries her beside her parents in a small, family plot. Everyone from town is in attendance, offering soothing words and empty promises for future happiness that do little but raise Noah’s ire. He wants to take his son home, hold him close, and possibly never leave his bed again.</p>
<p>Stiles has other ideas.</p>
<p>He bolts from his father's side, kicking up dirt in his haste to escape. He ignores Noah’s attempts at calling him back, and Noah curses, yelling his apologies at his neighbors before taking off after Stiles.</p>
<p>Eventually, his lungs remind him that he is not a young man and lacks his son’s energy and stamina. He slows to a walk, attempting to catch his breath. He doesn't need to worry about falling behind. He knows exactly where his son is going.</p>
<p>When Noah turns the sharp corner at the edge of the cliff leading up to the temple, he sees Stiles on his knees at the bottom of the steps, clothes and skin spattered with mud. When he gets close enough, Noah can make out the tear tracks through the dirt on his cheeks.</p>
<p>“Stiles.” When his son doesn’t respond, he says, “Mieczysław.”</p>
<p>“Don’t call me that!” Stiles screams; his bottom lip quivers, hands balled into fists and trembling in his lap. </p>
<p>He finally glances over at Noah and throws himself into his father’s arms. “I couldn’t go inside. Not without her.”</p>
<p>Noah rubs his hands up and down Stiles’ back. “I think the gods will forgive you for needing some time, Stiles.”</p>
<p>“The gods aren’t listening,” Stiles snaps, but his voice cracks, badly concealed. He buries his head in his father’s shoulder and sobs, ugly, heaving sounds that make him shudder. Noah’s cries are silent but no less agonized as he holds his son close, his tears wetting Stiles’ hair. They stay that way for a long while. </p>
<p>By the time they compose themselves enough to move, the sun is almost set, casting the woods in shadows. Noah isn't anxious about getting lost in the dark<em>—</em>Stiles has been here so many times, he could probably find his way home with his eyes closed. Still, he stays close to Noah as they walk together in silence. </p>
<p>Over the following weeks, that doesn’t change. Stiles sticks to Noah like glue, afraid that if he lets his father out of his sight for even a moment, he might disappear. Noah doesn’t mind; having Stiles close keeps him from traveling down the road to the tavern and drinking his sorrows away.</p>
<p>Stiles doesn’t return to the temple. Noah’s heart breaks when, six months after Claudia’s death, he catches Stiles burning the remaining ivy and wolfsbane from the offering basket in the hearth. Jaw clenched, Stiles roughly wipes his tears away with the back of his hand.</p>
<p>Noah takes the empty basket from Stiles’ limp hands and asks him to help get supper started. Though there isn’t much to do. The hunters have struggled to catch even the smallest of game. Stiles’ snares in the woods behind their home have saved them from starving on more than one occasion. </p>
<p>Then, the harvest fails for the first time in Noah’s memory. The crops wilt in the fields, the fruits die on the vines. The clementine tree in his own garden turns brown, the fruit bitter and inedible. </p>
<p>That winter is marred by dark, cold, and <em>hunger.</em> Claudia would have traveled to the temple every day, dragging her feet through the snow until she could make her pleas to the gods in the one place she was certain they would hear her prayers.</p>
<p>Stiles doesn’t go to the temple. He doesn’t make offerings, and he doesn’t pray. </p>
<p>Neither does Noah.</p>
<p>Instead, Stiles grabs his mother’s empty basket and goes out into the woods. He comes back several hours later, covered in snow and shaking with cold, but the basket is half-filled with wild onions and mushrooms.</p>
<p>Noah picks one up as Stiles sheds his cloak and his boots, bringing it to his nose and making a face. “Are you sure these won’t kill us?”</p>
<p>Stiles snatches the mushroom from Noah’s hands, tearing off the stem. “Mother taught me how to tell the edible mushrooms from the poisonous ones when I was five.” Stiles rolls his eyes, and Noah’s heart lurches in his chest. It’s the first time he’s spoken a single word about his mother without overwhelming grief. </p>
<p>Starved or not, Noah can’t feel anything but relief. </p>
<p>He chuckles. “Of course. How could I forget?”</p>
<p>Noah stares down at the pile of vegetables, knowing they would barely feed one fully grown man, nevermind a still-growing boy, for more than a day or two. </p>
<p>Stiles shuffles closer until he’s pressed against Noah’s side. His hands are still freezing even after standing in front of the fire. “Don’t worry. Next year will be better.”</p>
<p>Except it isn’t. If anything, the following harvest is more barren than the last. The hunters catch no game at all; even Stiles struggles to catch prey in his snares. Stews are little more than water and broth soaked up with bread. He adds extra to Stiles’ bowl when his son isn’t looking.</p>
<p>Stiles turns eighteen the following spring. Noah watches him entertain the neighbors' children while their parents take a much-needed rest, or out in the woods, determined to catch something for him and Noah to eat.</p>
<p>He comes back holding a rabbit by the ears, a grin splitting his face. Noah wishes Claudia was still alive to see the man he’s starting to become.</p>
<p>Noah drags himself out of bed every day before dawn to help the suffering people in his village in any way possible. He doesn’t return until well after dark. </p>
<p>Several weeks into the third brutal, barren winter, he collapses into bed upon his return home, holding his head in his hands.</p>
<p>“You need to eat something,” Stiles says, shoving a bowl of broth at his face, both of them knowing it will do little to sate his hunger or his grief. Noah doesn’t bother arguing, He takes the bowl, woodenly bringing the spoon to his mouth. </p>
<p>The bowl empties far too quickly. The spoon scrapes the bottom, making Noah wince. </p>
<p>Stiles gently takes the bowl from his hands. “I will clean these. Get some sleep.”</p>
<p>“Last I checked, I was the one giving orders around here.”</p>
<p>“And last I checked, you could barely stand on your feet. You need to rest.”</p>
<p>Noah grunts, but he curls up on the bed, not bothering to so much as take off his boots. “You inherited this tyrannical streak from your mother's side of the family, you know,” he says, half-delirious with exhaustion. Stiles snorts, tugging the blankets out from under Noah’s feet, holding the edge for his father to grab.</p>
<p>Noah drags the blanket up over his shoulders. “Gods, I miss Claudia so much.”</p>
<p>Stiles inhales sharply. Something clatters to the floor and breaks. Noah opens his eyes to find the bowl shattered at Stiles’ feet, his son standing stock-still and staring at Noah with wide eyes.</p>
<p>It takes a long, tumultuous moment for Noah to think past the fog clouding his brain and figure out what spooked Stiles so gravely.</p>
<p>Noah hasn't referred to Claudia by name since she died.</p>
<p>“I’m going to fix this,” Stiles whispers. He speaks under his breath in that ancient, guttural language Noah has heard so many times.<em> “I swear to the gods I will.”</em></p>
<p>Stiles hasn’t so much as mentioned the temple since that night after they buried Claudia. Now here he stands in front of the fire, invoking the old gods with a single-minded fury, as if the simple act of speaking their language will grant him any favor he asks.  </p>
<p>He sounds exactly like his mother—as sure of himself as Noah is sure that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.</p>
<p>“Stiles,” Noah says, voice hoarse.</p>
<p>“I’ll be fine,” Stiles promises. “Sleep.”</p>
<p>Noah should probably require more convincing, but he falls asleep as soon as he shuts his eyes.</p>
<p>He awakens to the sound of someone yelling outside of his window. Noah jerks upright, dragging a hand over his face when the sun shines in his eyes. He looks over to Stiles’ bed.</p>
<p>Stiles’ empty bed, which remains un-slept in.</p>
<p>Another shout, this one louder than the last. Noah heaves himself out of bed and across the house. He opens the door.</p>
<p>Amongst the snow is a sea of green<em>—</em>vegetables in their garden, the tops sticking out from under the snow, trees with green leaves. Bright orange clementines hang from the branches. Noah picks one, pulling off the rind and laughing when he bites into a perfectly ripened fruit.</p>
<p>Footsteps crunch through the snow, and Noah turns to find Stiles walking up the path, rubbing tired eyes that widen as he reaches their garden. He picks a clementine from the tree, pulls back the rind, and brings the fruit to his lips. The juice runs down his chin, dripping over his fingers.</p>
<p>Stiles laughs, awed.</p>
<p>“It’s a miracle!” One of their neighbors shouts.</p>
<p>Not quite.</p>
<p>Noah smiles, wandering over to join his son. “Your mother would say that the gods have smiled upon us.”</p>
<p>Stiles startles, whirling around. When he settles, Noah squeezes his shoulder. <em>I’m so proud of you,</em> he thinks to himself.</p>
<p>Stiles reaches for the purple wolfsbane flower nestled behind his ear and sticks it behind Noah’s own. Noah blinks, confused by the gesture.</p>
<p>Stiles simply grins. “Not all of the gods. Just one.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>coda.</strong>
</p><p>Noah makes his way carefully through the forest, branches and dead brush crackling under his feet. His knees ache, and it will probably take all night and most of the following morning for him to hike back to the house. He isn’t as young as he used to be.</p><p>After that extraordinary harvest, Stiles visited the temple as frequently as possible, more often than even his mother. He always seemed to return home with something they needed<em>—</em>herbs that not even the healer had seen before when Stiles was ill with a common cold; two hares the weeks the hunters struggled to catch any game.</p><p>The following harvest was better than the last; this year’s harvest was more prosperous still. Noah knows his son is to blame, but Stiles offered no explanation beyond a smile that spoke of secrets and the touch of his fingers to his right hip.</p><p>Noah sighs. He looks up at the cliffs at his side, taking that familiar, sharp turn.</p><p>The ancient building still stops him in his tracks. The columns are more moss-covered, and the edifice has crumbled further at the corners, but otherwise, the temple remains unchanged, even after all this time.</p><p>Noah, however, has changed quite a bit. He pauses at the bottom of the steps, using one of the columns to hold himself up as he catches his breath.</p><p><em>Keep up, old man, </em>he hears Claudia saying in his ear. He runs his fingers along the grooves of the carved rowan tree, following the same pattern he watched Claudia trace all those years ago.</p><p>Sighing, Noah uses the column for leverage and heaves himself up the steps. The sight that greets him as he steps inside has changed a great deal.</p><p>The grass is still midsummer-green beneath his feet but filled with wildflowers of many colors, pink, blue, purple, and white.</p><p>“Wolfsbane,” Noah whispers under his breath, thinking of the stem tucked behind Stiles’ ear.</p><p>A rowan tree towers above the nemeton. Noah tilts his head back. The limbs of the tree reach towards the sky, over the walls of the temple, out and beyond. Claudia told him the nemeton once stood in a sacred grove; looking up at the tree before him, Noah understands why it was once a symbol of the unparalleled power of the gods.</p><p>“My nephew is going to be so angry.”</p><p>Noah stills at the sound of a voice at his back. He lowers his head, turning slowly. There’s a man sitting on the nemeton stump who wasn’t there a moment ago, long legs crossed at the ankles, lounging backward on his hands like he doesn’t have a care in the world.</p><p>Noah blinks, expecting the man to disappear; he doesn’t. “Your nephew?”</p><p>“That I met you first. He’s going to hold that over my head for centuries.” The man smirks like the idea thrills him to death. He looks up into the canopy of the tree and rolls his eyes. “Subtlety is not that boy’s strong suit,” he mutters.</p><p>Noah rubs a hand over his mouth. He takes a tentative step forward, keeping as much space between himself and the stranger as he dares.</p><p>“You’re…” The word sticks in his throat, refusing to come out.</p><p>The man’s fingers tap at his knee. “A god,” he says, an impertinent smile tugging at his mouth, “but you can call me Peter.”</p><p>Noah shakes his head. “I must be out of my mind.” That or dreaming.</p><p>“Is it so hard to believe that your wife and son were praying to actual gods?”</p><p>Noah thinks of Claudia’s face the night she came home and told him she was with child. Of two hares clutched in Stiles’ fist where the hunters could catch none, of a bountiful, autumn harvest appearing in the middle of winter. “No, I suppose not.”</p><p>Peter preens, pleased with himself. He stands, examining the trunk of the tree like Noah is only worthy of half his attention. He continues on unperturbed. “Why are you here, Noah? You haven’t been inside of this temple since before your son was born.”</p><p>“How do you know that?”</p><p>“God,” he says again, more forcefully this time. “We listened to your family when they spoke to us. We heard you just before your wife gave birth. Do you remember that?”</p><p>Noah remembers—that desperate plea he sent up moments before Stiles came into the world, for some force in the universe to keep his wife alive. He should be thankful, even grateful that someone, somewhere, was actually listening. </p><p>Instead, anger rises in Noah’s chest, an unexpected beast. He remembers Claudia’s words from mere weeks before she passed. The way she cried in his arms, knowing pleading with the gods wouldn’t do any good, the same way Stiles tried so desperately to save his mother and received nothing in return. </p><p>“Then why did you not answer their prayers?”</p><p>Peter stills; it’s the stillness of a predator hiding in the grass, just before they slaughter their prey. The thought occurs to Noah, briefly and too late, that he maybe shouldn’t anger a being more powerful than he could fathom. </p><p>Except Stiles inherited his tendency to poke at things that could harm him, and he didn’t get that from his mother. </p><p>Peter’s eyes flicker, burning the bright red of scorched embers in the hearth. “We did what we could,” he says, voice deceptively calm, the eye of a storm just before the wind destroys everything in its path. “Which I assume you are well aware of, considering you have two extremely observant eyes in your head. Even the gods’ powers are limited. Death is the end for all things, human and otherwise.”</p><p>Noah scoffs, even while his heart pounds, breath coming short and making him lightheaded. “Even gods?”</p><p>The storm passes. Peter’s eyes remain that inhuman crimson, his anger leashed for the time being. “Yes. Even us.” </p><p>Peter sits down again. He pats the space beside him, and Noah sees no alternative but to obey the unspoken order and sit down, too. </p><p>“I dislike repeating myself,” Peter says coldly, “but this once, I will make an exception. Why are you here, Noah? What is it you came to ask of the old gods?”</p><p>“I<em>—</em>” Noah pauses, unsure of himself. He thought he came here to seek answers for the past three years, full of wonders that seemed to appear with no catalyst but Stiles' entreaties to the gods.</p><p>Images of Stiles flashes across his memory: holding a hand to his chest over his heart; fingers playing at his hip along the mark imprinted on his skin that he thinks Noah hasn't noticed; the smile on his face after his visits to the temple that often don't fade for days—the one that reminds Noah of Claudia's smile.</p><p>“I want my son to be happy,” he says quietly. As happy as he and Claudia used to be.</p><p>Peter stares, red eyes snapping back to piercing blue so quickly, Noah flinches. A moment of tense silence stretches thin between them, threatening to snap before Peter deigns himself ready to answer.</p><p>“You Stilinskis really are something,” he says with a surprising lack of sarcasm. “You never pray for yourselves.”</p><p>Noah frowns. “Is that a bad thing?”</p><p>“No. It is a rare thing.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I can't grant him happiness for his entire life. Even gods do not control everything in the universe. But I promise to intervene where I can. I ask for a single thing in return.”</p><p>Noah purses his lips. “What?”</p><p>“Don’t look so petrified. I'm not asking for your life.” He grins, his teeth razor sharp. They say the old gods could take the form of some creature half-man, half-wolf. </p><p>Noah swallows. "Then what are you asking for?"</p><p>“Acceptance.”</p><p>Noah folds his arms over his chest. “Acceptance.”</p><p>“Yes. My nephew has an interesting way of getting what he wants—including circumnavigating rules of the universe older than time itself.” Peter throws out his arm, dramatically gesturing to the rowan tree. “You sit beneath one example. That tree is barely three years old.”</p><p>“That’s not possible,” Noah says before his brain can catch up with his mouth.</p><p>“You are speaking with a god,” Peter says, his tone of voice calling Noah an idiot without him ever voicing the word.</p><p>“You make a fair point,” Noah mutters. Three years. He counts backward in his head. </p><p>His arms drop to his sides. “The harvest,” he whispers.</p><p>Peter nods. “As I said—you’re much too observant to ask such stupid questions.”</p><p>“You didn’t say anything about stupid questions.”</p><p>“My mistake. I should have.”</p><p>Noah looks up at the canopy of the rowan tree, too distracted to respond to the obvious slight. “What did he give?” He may not have taken part in Claudia’s traditions; that doesn’t mean he wasn’t listening. Summoning the gods requires sacrifice. An act of supplication and desperation.</p><p>Stiles was very desperate.</p><p>“Himself,” Peter says.</p><p>Noah’s hands clench into fists. “You mean his life.”</p><p>A pinch of that earlier anger creeps back into Peter’s voice. “If I meant his life, I would have said so. I mean he gave <em>himself.</em>” His lips slip back into the smirk that seems so at home on his face. “In more ways than one.”</p><p>Noah huffs when Peter doesn't elaborate and rolls his eyes skyward. “I have no idea what any of this means.”</p><p>“You will. Eventually.”</p><p>“Are all of the gods so infuriatingly vague?”</p><p>“Well, if I gave you all of the answers, you wouldn’t learn a thing, now would you, Noah? That and a little chaos is good for the soul every now and again.” Peter laughs to himself as he rises to his feet. “Derek is going to hate me,” he adds with unrestrained glee and disappears.</p><p>Noah stares at the empty space for a long time, mulling over the day’s events. He stands and treks home in a daze, unsure whether or not the god's appearance was even real. He's half-convinced he hallucinated the entire conversation, the result of rampant exhaustion or some sort of fever dream.</p><p>That is, until the night Stiles introduces him to Derek.</p><p>Noah stares at the man standing beside his son, their hands wound tightly together. His head spins as Peter's words return to him in a flood.</p><p>
  <em>Derek is going to hate me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Himself. In more ways than one.</em>
</p><p>He casts his thoughts back further still, to the morning after the harvest and Stiles tucking a wolfsbane flower behind Noah’s ear, saying, <em>“Not all of the gods. Just one.”</em></p><p>Oh. </p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Now he understands.</p><p>Peter couldn’t just tell him this plainly? Noah swears he hears Peter’s snide laughter in response to the thought.</p><p>Noah shakes his head, finally able to convince his stubborn muscles to unclench so he can shake Derek’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, and he means it. Even if he does squeeze Derek’s hand just this side of too tight.</p><p>Derek’s lips twitch into a smirk eerily reminiscent of that of his uncle. Unlike Peter, Derek is unfailingly polite. Stiles speaks with his usual enthusiasm, and Derek ducks his flailing hands with an ease that speaks to years of experience. </p><p>Three years, to be exact.</p><p>Noah presses his fingers to his forehead, staring at the dying fire in the hearth. He feels a headache coming on.</p><p>Stiles frowns. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Just cold, I think."</p><p>If Stiles picks up on the lie, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he stands and says, “I’ll get some more firewood.”</p><p>He ducks down to hiss in Noah’s ear. “Be nice.”</p><p>“I am always nice.” </p><p>Stiles snorts and steps outside. Derek’s eyes follow him across the room and out the door, a magnet drawn due north.</p><p>Noah follows his gaze and sighs. “I haven’t seen him this happy since his mother died,” he says the moment Stiles is out of earshot. </p><p>Derek’s smile lights up his entire face making him look like a young boy rather than the god Noah knows him to be. “He makes me happy, too.”</p><p>“I’m glad of that.” Noah leans forward, and Derek jumps. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in knowing he’s caught the other man off-guard. “But if you hurt my son, god or no god, I will find a way to destroy you.”</p><p>To his surprise, Derek grins with a fondness that speaks of more love than Noah could ever put into words. It’s everything Noah has ever wanted for his son, for someone to love him as much as Noah loved his wife.</p><p>He only wishes Claudia was here to see it.</p><p>“Of that, I have no doubt,” Derek says. He looks up, eyes far too knowing like he can read every thought in Noah’s head.</p><p>Noah clears his throat and changes the subject before he’s overcome by his emotions. “So. Peter’s nephew.”</p><p>Derek’s smile is immediately replaced by a scowl, hackles rising like an angry cat<em>—</em>as riled up as his uncle predicted. </p><p>Noah’s answering burst of laughter rings throughout the entire house.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to wolfflock for the cheerleading I needed to finish writing. Barring any further unexpected interludes, the last two fics in this series will complete Stiles and Derek's story. Thank you for staying on this wild ride with me.</p><p>Feel free to follow me on <a href="https://jacyevans.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> for fic updates, flailing, and general fandom nonsense.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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